


Interlude (Braavos is for Lovers)

by cheerynoir



Series: Drowning!verse [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dagmer might not be blood but Theon is his kid, Family Feels, M/M, POV Third Person, Present Tense, Ramsay is his own warning, Robb's Oblivious (until he isn't), Robb's in love - it doesn't matter how, Robb's worried - so is Asha, The Plot Thickens, The Starks are a long line of cops, and no one is surprised, though it's more implied than anything here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3743959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerynoir/pseuds/cheerynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Mid-September</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Asha gets worried when Theon doesn't answer his phone. Cleftjaw and Robb have a little chat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude (Braavos is for Lovers)

“Stark!”

Robb freezes where he’s leaning on the front desk of the police station. His father is no-where in sight, which means there is one person being yelled at, and he has A) no idea who is yelling and B) no idea why it’s happening.

So he straightens his back, throws back his shoulders, and turns with his chin lifted high and his jaw set. He immediately wishes he’d made a run for the nearest exit. Leapt out a window – they’re on the ground floor. He’d be fine. Anything other than deal with what was coming for him.

Dagmer Cleftjaw is a man he knows in passing. He’s owns the bar Theon works at, Foamdrinker, they’d spoken a couple of times when Robb was waiting for Theon to finish his shift. Theon likes him, calls him Uncle. Or Nuncle? The Islands were an odd place, full of their own slang that after all these years, Robb still can’t nail down completely.

Dagmer Cleftjaw is approximately six and a half feet tall, and solid muscle, despite his shock of white hair and his gnarled hands. He looks – Robb doesn’t use the term ‘murderous’ lightly, but he’s more or less certain that he’s in for a beating when the other man stomps into his space.

His mouth is a ruin, crossed with ropey scar-tissue and yanked into a permanent snarl. His breath smells of mint despite the state of his teeth, and washes sharply across Robb’s face. Robb’s grip tightens on his school-bag, but he doesn’t let himself shy back.

Personal space, Robb has learned, is not something that Islanders prize highly. Especially when they’re trying to intimidate you. Robb holds his ground.

“Cleftjaw,” he says. His voice does not shake.

“Where’s my boy, ginger Stark?” is what he gets in reply. Robb blinks. Because he didn’t know what he was expecting, but this was not it. He glances around, but it’s pretty clear that help is not coming, even if it looks like Brienne is going to jump the front desk if Cleftjaw gets any closer.

“Pardon?”

“ _Theon_ ,” the word is a snarl. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” and that stings to admit. “I haven’t – I haven’t seen him since June.”

“What?”

The confusion that flickers across Cleftjaw’s face slips across Robb’s as well, and he rubs his mouth and shrugs. Tries not to think about the last time he’d actually seen Theon, lean and pale in the morning light, offering Advil and water and quiet, insincere sympathy. “The last time I saw him, it was after exams had finished. He hasn’t been in touch since then. So I don’t know where he is. Why? Is everything okay?”

I haven’t seen but – but not for lack of trying, he thinks, and he’s almost bitter. He’d filled Theon’s inbox with voicemails, sent too many texts to count. The few times he’d made the trip to Pyke had been unsuccessful. When he let himself into the apartment Theon and his sister shared – with the key Theon had tossed him a few months after he’d moved in – the only one to meet him was Ramsay Snow, looking amused and almost contrite. _No, sorry, you just missed him. I’ll tell him you came by, though._

The texts went unread. The messages unanswered. If Theon ever knew he dropped by, he never let on.

“No,” says Cleftjaw. He rocks back on his heels and scowls at the ceiling. Every line in him is tense, his jaw set. His fingers twitch against his thighs, heavy rings glinting. Theon wears rings like that, Robb notes. Or at least – he used to. Said he won them finger-dancing, and Robb would believe it from the scars on Theon’s hands if he didn’t know what sticky-fingers Theon had, too.

“It’s not. The last time he went this long without answering his sister’s calls, he was with you. He hasn’t been in to work, either.”

“What?” Theon never missed work if he could help it. Said he didn’t make enough to take time off.

A sharp look, almost annoyed. “You both fucked off for a couple of weeks a few summers ago, remember? Asha was livid. I was going to fire the brat for going when I told him not to.”

“He said he took leave,” Robb replies numbly. It had been his idea – that much he remembers. They’d driven south in Robb’s beater of a car, to Dorne with its white sand beaches and warm water and pretty girls. Bought a grotty hotel room with two beds and a barely-functioning AC on the beach with roaches in the bathroom and spent two weeks getting sunburned and drunk, watching the stars when they came out with their feet in the ocean. Robb spent those weeks licking his lips and tasting salt, Theon languid at his elbow, a sweat-damp sprawl of dark hair and sun-kissed skin. The trip had been a graduation present for himself. Two weeks away from the Stark family and its constant drama, with his – his best friend. 

Cleftjaw waves a hand, dismisses it like it doesn’t mean anything. “He didn’t. But that doesn’t matter now. You haven’t seen or heard from him in the last couple of weeks, then?”  
“No. There’s been nothing.” He slides a hand into his pocket and palms his phone, willing it to ring. “What about his-”

Robb bites his tongue too late. He’s spent years keeping Theon’s secrets, from the hand-print-shaped bruises on his forearms when he was 12 to the petty crimes of last winter.

“His what?” Cleftjaw says, low.

“He’s got this,” fuck he hates this. He should have kept his mouth shut. “He’s kind of been seeing this guy. Ramsay. For a while. Maybe try his place?”

Cleftjaw scoffs. “Oh, _Ramsay_. The bastard. I know about him.”

The tone eases something in Robb’s shoulders and he leans back against the counter. “They might have taken off together,” he offers, shrugging slightly. Theon had talked about that a lot, with Robb. Just the two of them taking off like there was nothing keeping them here at all. He’d wanted to see Braavos before he died, he’d said that with a laugh, like it didn’t make Robb want to hit him for talking about his own death so causally.

“Maybe. You have his dad’s last name?”

 _Bolton,_ Theon had said once, his fingers tight on Robb’s wrist and snow melting in his dark hair. _Bolton, not Snow. Never Snow. Don’t let him hear you say that._

He’d disliked the quiet urgency in Theon’s voice when he’d said it, and he hates it now. There’d been fear in it, under the intensity. He could see that now. He wants to curse himself for not seeing it before.

“Bolton,” he says at last. “It’s Ramsay Bolton.”

Cleftjaw nods and eases back. Robb has a sudden thought – of this man razing the North to find his child-by-choice, if not blood. He can almost see the axe in his hand and the blood on his face. Robb shivers.

“What’s going on?”

“Dad,” says Robb.

He turns at his father’s voice, relaxing before he’d even realized how tense he was. His father is a tall man, broad. Built like stone – strong enough to take the weight of the world and then some, to endure what was thrown at him. Strong enough for this.

Cleftjaw pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. He’s quiet for a moment, before he turns back to them fully. He smiles and it’s a ghastly, vicious thing.

“I’d like to file a missing person’s report.” is what he says, and Robb’s stomach drops into his boots. 

He might not have seen Theon all summer – but “missing” felt too real for comfort.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait on this one. I wrote this for Theonweek over on Tumblr, but didn't manage to get it posted in time.
> 
> Currently unbeta'd - if you see any errors, let me know. And tell me what you think of the POV shift -- too jarring?
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.cheerynoir.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
